Home
by Gameson221b
Summary: A simple love story. Sherlock knows it's always for John. It will always be for John.


"Sh?"

In the darkness, the urgent whisper startles him from his thoughts, drawing him upright in his chair to curl one hand over a trembling shoulder.

"I'm here," he whispers in reply, relief filling him as the sound of his abbreviated name displaces the icy emptiness that has resided in his chest for far too long. Tentative fingers feather across his cheek when he leans closer to touch their foreheads together, and for a moment they simply breathe.

"See...you?"

The small, frightened voice alerts Sherlock to the now familiar need and without hesitation, he obeys. The light from his mobile bathes them in its soft glow, allowing him to see wide blue eyes looking back at him from mere inches away.

"It's all right. You're safe."

"Where?"

"Hospital."

"Why?" The single word is drawn out on a hushed sigh.

"There was an explosion. You were very near, too near."

"You...okay?"

"I'm fine, John, but you have a concussion. It's temporarily effected your vision and hearing and your confusion makes it difficult for you to put words together, but with time you are expected to fully recover."

It is the third occasion he's given John the same reassurance. This time, John seems to understand. Sherlock is prepared to tell him a thousand times if that is what John needs to feel safe.

"How...long?"

"You've been in and out of consciousness for two days. You were restless, murmuring, whispering unintelligibly at times. You called out for me. You sensed that I was near, yes?"

John nods slowly.

Clearing his own raw and broken voice, Sherlock swallows hard. "You...said...you loved me." He offers his doctor the first confident smile in what feels like an age.

John nods slowly. "Yes...love you."

Sherlock beams. "I love you, too," he whispers.

"Sh?"

John's dark eyes narrow, perhaps, Sherlock thinks, to bring the world into focus. Sherlock squeezes the shoulder beneath his palm, curling his other hand around John's smaller one.

"Yes, John?"

"Home?"

"Soon."

"Home. Go...home."

Sherlock pushes himself to his feet to stretch his stiffened back.

"No!"

Before Sherlock can lean toward his doctor, John grasps his wrist, drawing him down until the detective settles on the edge of the bed. Cupping the much loved cheek, Sherlock gazes at John, allowing the last shards of icy dread to melt away from his heart.

"It's all right, John. It's all right."

"Don't go. Don't leave...without me."

Sherlock's heart clenches and skips a beat the instant John's eyes brim with tears. He chases them away with a tender swipe of his thumb, wishing he could so easily wipe away the bruises on the brave heart that beats inside his soldier's chest. He well knows there is one memory, although long forgiven, which will never fade.

"I've been here for two days, John. Even if you asked me to go, I could not leave you. Together is the only way we will leave this dismal place."

"Home?"

"When you are well enough."

"Home."

Sherlock smiles at the urgent, whispered plea, and drops a soft kiss to John's mouth.

"Rest now, John. Try to sleep."

Sherlock pulls his chair as close as possible to the side of the bed and lowers himself into it.

"I'll be here when you wake. Turning off the light now, John."

"Sh?"

"Yes, John?"

"Please?"

Sherlock hears the break in John's voice and feels the trembling hand that searches, then settles at the center of his chest.

"Home? Please?"

It isn't necessary for Sherlock to see John's face to know his doctor's desperation; he can feel it in the hands twisted in his shirt. Bringing his mobile to life once more, his fingertips dance over the numerals.

"Mycroft." The detective leans close to include John in the conversation.

"Sherlock, it's the middle of the night."

"The British Government never sleeps, Mycroft."

"Be that as it may, brother dear, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

"John wants to go home. A cab is not convenient. We need transportation."

Sherlock knows John hears him, but whether he hears Mycroft isn't clear until his frown gives him away.

After a brief pause, Mycroft sighs. "I will be there within the hour."

"Mycroft, repeat in text."

When Mycroft responds as requested, Sherlock tilts the mobile so John can read it, but the doctor's eyes close with another shake of his head. The detective presses his lips against John's ear.

"Mycroft texted that he will be here within the hour."

John nods, leaning into Sherlock's touch.

"Everything will be just fine, John. I'm here, I won't let anything happen to you."

Getting his doctor dressed is harder than Sherlock anticipates. John tries to help, but he is wobbly and loose-limbed and sitting up makes him dizzy enough to seek support from the detective.

"John, I think you'd better lie down and let me dress you."

"Sher..?"

Upon hearing the newer abbreviated version of his name, Sherlock smiles, but is concerned by the frustration creasing John's brow.

"It's fine, John, you'll find all the letters soon."

Easing John back onto his pillow, Sherlock leans close to his ear once again.

"I'm going to get your clothes from the cupboard and pack your duffle. Will you be all right?"

"Yes."

Sherlock draws his finger across John's soft lips. Blue eyes disappear beneath fluttering lids and a soft sigh escapes.

"That's my brave boy, I'll just be a moment."

"Not a...boy."

Sherlock shakes his head at John's annoyed tone, turning away to hide his grin.

John turns his head as though following his movements, but Sherlock is certain it's the mobile light he follows. When he returns to John's side, his doctor reaches for him, circling both wrists with desperate fingers.

"I'm here, John, I won't leave you. Since you refuse to settle down to sleep, I'm going to turn on the overhead light now, so close your eyes for just a moment."

Further shielding John's eyes with his hand, Sherlock stretches toward the switch above the bed.

"Open your eyes slowly so they'll adjust. Good. Now I'll remove my hand."

John squints up at him with just a touch of a smile on his lips.

"Fuzzy."

Sherlock brushes one finger against John's nearly three-day growth of beard. "Yes, you are."

"No, you...look fuzzy."

Sherlock chuckles in his deep baritone. John giggles just a bit as he lifts a shaky hand to grasp a handful of Sherlock's dark curls.

To maintain as much of John's dignity as possible, Sherlock maneuvers him into his pants, t-shirt and socks beneath the sheet. Once the sheet is tossed to the floor, sliding the jeans up John's legs to his thighs is easy.

"Can you lift your bum so I can get your jeans up the rest of the way?"

John does as Sherlock requests and in seconds, the jeans are up and over his hips, zipped and buttoned. John seems to come out of his lethargy a bit and pushes his arms into the sleeves of his jumper once Sherlock pulls it over his head.

Sherlock leans in close to John's face and presses another gentle kiss to his mouth. He grins when the dark blue eyes settle on his face and he sees a bit more focus in John's sleepy gaze.

"There you are."

"Mmm."

"Once Mycroft arrives, we'll dress you in your coat and shoes and we'll be off. For now, just rest."

Never anything but punctual, Mycroft pushes open the door fifty-five minutes later and approaches the bed where both Sherlock and John lay wrapped around each other.

Sherlock nods, easing himself away from John to stand beside his brother. Beckoning Mycroft to the far corner of the room, he speaks in whispers to allow John to sleep as long as possible.

"John is unsteady, but more aware than just a few hours ago. There should be no problem to secret him away from here."

"That won't be necessary, Sherlock. I was able to contact John's physician. We are fortunate that he is on duty at the present time."

"So we can leave now?"

"Dr. Scott is bringing the appropriate papers shortly. John will be released into your care with your signature, should he be unable to sign for himself."

Just as Mycroft finishes speaking, the door swings wide to admit Dr. Scott.

"Mycroft. It's been an age. Are you well?"

"Quite well, Dr. Scott, thank you. You've met my brother Sherlock."

The doctor turns to acknowledge Sherlock. "Yes, Mycroft has informed me that you will be caring for Dr. Watson?"

"Yes." Sherlock's scrutiny is enough to momentarily silence the doctor, if not force him back a step.

"Yes, very good, well then, shall we move along?"

Sherlock ignores the obvious chill from the doctor, no doubt from their earlier disagreement regarding John's care.

"I would like to perform a brief examination prior to release. Although it is quite irregular to discharge a patient in the middle of the night, we do on occasion make such allowances."

"Apologies, Dr. Scott," Mycroft says, no doubt in an effort to alleviate the tension.

Sherlock keeps an intense watch on Dr. Scott as he checks the monitor for John's blood pressure and listens to his heart. John does not respond when the doctor checks his pupil reaction, he simply sleeps on, and the longer the older man lingers over him, the more annoyance lodges like a knot in Sherlock's chest.

"I'd like you to wake him. It's always better for a loved one, rather than a stranger, to wake a patient. I will ask him a few questions and if he answers satisfactorily, I will have you sign the discharge sheet and you can be on your way."

"Dr. Scott, whether or not John answers to your satisfaction, we are leaving here within the next few minutes. John asked me to take him home and I intend to honor his request. I assure you he will rest just as well, if not better, at home." Sherlock wants to add 'in our bed,' but he bites back his retort.

Sherlock and Dr. Scott study each other for several long seconds, but neither man speaks. The detective throws a quick glance at Mycroft, who raises an eyebrow, and the subject is closed as far as Sherlock is concerned.

Deleting his annoyance with Dr. Scott, Sherlock approaches the side of the bed, and for a moment he hesitates, unwilling to wake John. He struggles with the overwhelming urge to simply wrap his doctor's small body in a blanket and carry him to the safety of Baker Street. Finally deciding that causing a scene would serve no purpose other than delaying their departure, Sherlock allows himself a controlled sigh and rests his palm on the crown of John's head.

"John?"

The simple touch of Sherlock's fingertip along John's jaw is enough to elicit a sleepy response.

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective grins at his partner. "You found the rest of my name, John."

Pressing their foreheads together, Sherlock caresses John's cheek with his elegant fingers.

"The doctor is here, John, as is Mycroft."

"Home...now?"

"Soon."

John frowns, searching for Sherlock's hand, restless until Sherlock curls his long fingers around shorter ones. He struggles to come fully awake, or at least as awake as is possible.

"John, Dr. Scott would like to ask you a few questions before we leave."

"Home?"

"Yes, John, we're going home soon."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I gotta wee!"

Without a word, Sherlock scoops John off the bed and carries him to the small loo, closing the door firmly behind them. When they return minutes later, John is on his feet, supported by an arm around his waist. Depositing him safely on the bed, Sherlock sits beside John, holding his wobbly head against his shoulder.

Mycroft smiles briefly when Sherlock glances in his direction. It is his indulgent smile, at which Sherlock usually bristles, but this time he knows he and Mycroft are of the same mind. John's welfare is paramount and he needs to be home.

"Now, Dr. Watson, John, can you tell me your birthdate?"

The knot in the detective's chest tightens when John doesn't answer right away, and seems at a loss for several moments before lifting his head from Sherlock's shoulder. He repeats Dr. Scott's question, hoping his familiar voice will draw John from his confusion.

John stares at him, his dark eyes locked on Sherlock's pale ones.

"September eight?"

"And the year, John?"

"Mmm. Seventy-one?"

"Perhaps, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson would respond to you more easily than to me. Here is a list of my questions."

Sherlock peruses the list to check the accuracy of the anticipated answers. He shakes his head at the inanity of it, releasing a long-suffering sigh of disdain.

"Your full name, John?"

From the expression on John's face and his blown wide eyes, Sherlock knows his doctor is afraid one incorrect answer will keep him a prisoner in this hospital.

"John...H-hamish...W-wat-son."

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"I..."

"Take all the time you need, John. It doesn't matter if you answer incorrectly, I am taking you home shortly. This is just unfortunate protocol."

John nods, relaxes a bit, leaning into the warmth and safety of Sherlock's body.

"Ex-explosion. Fell. Con...cussion."

Deviating from the printed list, Sherlock asks simpler questions to hurry the proceedings.

"John, do you know who that man is, the one standing by the door?"

"My-croft?"

"Yes, that is his name, but who is he?"

John looks at Sherlock, and then back at Mycroft, whom Sherlock deduces to be increasingly impatient for John to answer as well. John frowns, tips his head back and presents Sherlock with his best John smile, the one he saves just for Sherlock.

The Brit...tish Gove...ment?"

Sherlock drops the list on the bed and circles his arms around John.

"Well done. It's time for us to get you home."

"If you have any questions or if he regresses..."

"We know the signs, Dr. Scott, and John is, after all, a physician."

The doctor murmurs under his breath, offering Sherlock the release papers.

"John, are you steady enough to sign the release, or shall I, as your partner, sign it for you?"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock ignores the warning in his brother's annoyed address. He reasons a bit of sarcasm directed at the doctor is not totally inappropriate this one time.

"Both?"

"Both it is."

Sherlock presses the pen into John's left hand, splaying his own fingers beneath the chart board to which is clipped the release.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Where?"

"Here, next to my finger. Your name is important, the line is not."

Sherlock accepts the pen from him and signs his own name just beneath John's shaky scrawl.

"Thank you, Dr. Scott, for the care you have provided. It's time for us to go home, yes, John?"

Sherlock is aware his additional sarcasm is not lost on either Dr. Scott or Mycroft.

John nods, but does not speak.

"Let's get your shoes on. Can you sit, or would your rather recline?"

Before John can respond, Mycroft moves to the bedside to support him with an arm around his shoulders.

Sherlock isn't often surprised by Mycroft's actions, but surprised he is as he hurries to fasten John's shoes before Dr. Scott can change his mind. Both he and Mycroft bundle John into his coat.

Mycroft steps back, allowing Sherlock to keep John upright by hugging him to disguise his instability.

"Time to go home, John."

John tips his head back again to gaze at the detective. "Ready, Sher..lock."

Guiding John off the edge of the bed and onto his feet, Sherlock waits for just a moment to ensure John is able to stand on his own. A faint now, if Dr. Scott were to see it, would preclude his release.

"Sherlock, John, shall we set off? I'm certain Dr. Scott has other patients who need his care."

Mycroft's warning is clear to only Sherlock.

John's stiff-legged gait to the door is disguised by Mycroft's position to block Dr. Scott's line-of-sight. Mycroft is on his side, for this moment. Odd, but Sherlock is grateful once again. And surprised. Once again. Under other circumstances, Mycroft's behavior would have been tedious. And hateful.

Silent and lumbering, John makes a valiant effort to stay upright until the lift doors close. With a groan, he turns to Sherlock, resting his forehead against the detective's shoulder.

"Head hurts."

Sherlock bends his knees, lifts John into his arms, and holds him against his body.

"The car is waiting on level one, Sherlock."

"Home?"

"Yes, John, we'll be home soon."

"Home."

John nuzzles against his shoulder, a motion not lost on Mycroft, Sherlock notes with petulant disregard. He can hear Mycroft's I told you so's rattling around in his head, but he refuses to allow his brother's smug appraisal to annoy him.

As promised, the infamous black car is waiting for them. With a minimum of effort, Sherlock tucks his partner into the seat, then slides in to pull John against his side.

"Your possessiveness of John suits you, Sherlock, in a rather...

incongruous manner. Who would have guessed?"

Of their own will, and in direct confirmation of his brother's observation, Sherlock's arms tighten around John. He averts his gaze to avoid the knowing smirk dancing across Mycroft's supercilious face.

Mycroft is not well acquainted with a chuckle, but much to Sherlock's annoyance, he nevertheless allows one to break the silence. The detective rolls his eyes and continues facing the window, but soon drops his gaze to the sleeping face nestled against his chest.

He wonders what he has done in his life to deserve the unreserved love of this man in his arms? It is his most precious...precious? Is there such a word in his vocabulary? After a moment of thought, yes, precious suits. As the recipient of such a gift, Sherlock is the most fortunate of the most difficult of men.

He hugs John tighter against himself, John's soft grunt his reward.

To say that he is relieved is more than an apt description of how Sherlock feels when the car stops, as is, he presumes, Mycroft, but John sleeps on, oblivious to their arrival at Baker Street.

"John?"

When there is no response, Sherlock draws a fingertip along John's cheek.

"John? We're home now. You need to wake up. I can't carry you up the narrow steps."

Several mumbles later, John attempts and fails to sit up, curling into Sherlock once more.

Sherlock tightens his arms for a moment longer, then opens the door, allowing his brother to steady John until he steps out. Thankful that the doctor is small enough to easily maneuver him out onto the pavement, he wraps a strong arm around John's waist and supports him as they approach the door.

It is just past four in the morning, far too early for Mrs. Hudson to be up and about. Stealth is imperative to get John upstairs and settled before their landlady knows he is home. As long as the flat is quiet, she will not knock on their door until late morning, giving John time to sleep and perhaps push off more of his lethargy and confusion.

The struggle to the flat door is exhausting, far more for John than for Sherlock. By the time they reach the turn in the stairs, John is shaking uncontrollably, and no longer able to lift his feet without stumbling. When Mycroft comes up behind them, his hand on the doctor's lower back and a firm grip on his arm, their arrival at the flat door is assured.

"Tea and toast, Sherlock?"

Sherlock accepts his brother's offer with a nod of his head while he removes John's coat and shoes and tucks him into the corner of the sofa.

"John?"

"Hmm? Sher..lock?"

"We're home."

"Home?"

"Yes, home. Baker Street."

John lifts his head to glance around the sitting room. What he can see isn't clear, but he remains calm. That he is half-asleep is an obvious benefit.

"Sherrr...lock?"

"I'm right here."

"Head all wrong."

"I know. I will care for you."

Mycroft sets a tray on the table in front of them and sits on the far end of the sofa.

"It would be advantageous for the both of you to eat and drink and go to bed. You are both exhausted and, if I may say so, more pale than usual."

Sherlock has no witty response; Mycroft, after all, occasionally means well. Perhaps his own lack of sleep is weighing on him. How odd, Sherlock decides and shrugs.

Tasting the tea for warmth and proper preparation, he holds the cup to John's mouth and watches him gulp it down. Replacing the cup on the tray, he tears a slice of dry toast and offers it to John, who chews it slowly while resting his head against the back of the sofa. Quickly finishing his own toast and swallowing a bit of his tea, Sherlock offers his remaining sweetened tea to John. The doctor is too weary to notice the difference.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

"Oh, it has been my pleasure. I will take these to the kitchen and be on my way. Shall I lock the doors when I depart?"

"Please."

"Do take care, Sherlock, and contact me if I can be of further assistance. Preferably at a reasonable hour."

"Good night, Mycroft."

"Yes, good night, Sherlock. John."

"Come, John, time for you to go to bed."

With his belly filled, John hiccoughs and huffs a laugh, although Sherlock doubts he knows what it is that amuses him. On his feet, he sways and tips forward, like a child learning to walk. Once tucked against Sherlock's side, John shuffles along toward the bedroom.

"Sherrr...lock?"

"I know, John. We'll visit the loo."

In the bedroom, Sherlock undresses his doctor and guides him onto the bed, tucking an extra soft pillow under his head and neck. He drops his own creased and rumpled clothing beside the bed before climbing over John and settling down beside him. He sighs with relief once the duvet is tucked around them.

"Sherrr..lock."

"Hmm?"

"Home?"

"Yes, we're home, warm and comfortable. I believe we'll remain in this bed for the rest of the week."

"Okay."

"How are you feeling?"

"Brilliant."

"Fibbing, John."

"Sher...lock?"

"Hush, John. You need to sleep."

John reaches out as is his custom, whether deeply asleep or just slipping away, and rests his palm against Sherlock's chest, over his heart. Then, his hands slip beneath Sherlock's shoulders and he holds on.

"Need you." John's request is barely a breath to Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock smiles every time John expresses his need to be held, and this time is no exception. Gathering the small but sturdy body close, chest to chest, John's head tucked beneath his chin, he captures his soldier in a warm cocoon of long arms and legs.

"Home," John murmurs, wriggling closer.

"Mmm," Sherlock replies, holding John even tighter.

Indeed, no matter where they are, as long as they are together, they are home.

Mycroft stands beside the bed for just a moment, fixing the duvet more firmly around the two men. He allows his hand to rest momentarily on the crown of his brother's head, and then John's. A faint smile twitches over his lips. Stepping away toward the door, he pauses to look back one last time. Releasing an unintentional and unaccustomed sigh, he shakes his head.

"It's okay to care, Mikey," Sherlock softly calls to him, using their mother's nickname for his brother just to irritate.

"Yes, quite."


End file.
